Cigarettes Top Drawer
by Jaensdenim
Summary: "I guess I just have a thing for fiery brunettes, that's all." "I can see that."


It's all so stupid, he can't help but to think as he gazes out the window of his apartment with a sigh. There's this nice, somewhat softer feeling inside his chest after sex, his shoulders more relaxed and his breath gradually taking a slower rhythm after the sparks and ecstasy of orgasm. He sits up, look at the other side of the bed and there's a tiny glimpse of his _I-can't-believe-I-just-fucking-did-this_ look that slips him for a moment. Oh, it's not because it's a man, obviously, even though Owen is probably not as experienced with that kind of things as he'd like to admit. He doesn't really mean it, but he knows that Jack saw it.

"Cigarettes. Top drawer."

Jack doesn't answer right away, and he has that truly infuriating look on his face. It's not a smile yet, not really, and it makes Owen want to punch his teeth out for a moment. He doesn't do it.

"I didn't know you smoked."

"Everybody has their secrets. You of all people should know, Harkness."

That wasn't nice, but Owen won't apologise. Still, his voice takes a softer tone as he asks again, and he gives Jack one of those thinly commiserating half-smiles. It's the best Jack will get out of him with that kicked-puppy look, and Jack knows it.

"Top drawer. There's a lighter with it."

Jack slowly rises himself up, and the bedsheet fall off him as he leans to grab it in the bedside table, revealing his stupidly muscular back. It's an annoying sight, and Owen would turn away, if he could. He can't. Something in Jack's hair and riveting trapezius.

It's a surprise when Jack slips a cigarette between his lips, his fingers brushing against his lips. Owen raises his eyes up, and their gaze meet. It's funny, because for a fleeting moment, Owen can't help but to be reminded of those terrible romance novels Mother was so fond of, and it makes him want to throw up. This is not how he works, has never done, and he's pretty sure that Captain Jack Harkness isn't one for romantic bulshit either. Ianto cries and bitches enough for the both of them, most probably.

It's an odd sort of silent agreement they have as Owen nods, letting Jack light his cigarette. He breathes in, his eyes still on Jack's face, breathes out. It's only after that that he realises the meaning of Jack's look on the wrinkled pack of vintage Lucky Strikes and that antique lighter Diane left behind before flying her plane back into the unknown. Fuck. Owen is definitely not up for that kind of explanation.

"Don't ask."

"I won't."

He's using that stupid, stupid office voice, and Owen really does consider gorging his dumb pretty blue eyes out for a moment. It hits those weird, low notes, and it has that reassuring, soft sound that Owen surely doesn't need when dealing with his own failed existence. He sighs, smokes with that sour look on his face. Jack only makes that drawn-out sighing sound that sounds suspiciously like a moan, falls back against the mattress with a thud, seemingly as carefree as ever.

"I…" Owen starts, and he doesn't really know what to say.

In any normal situation, he would be more than happy to have Jack Harkness shut up like this, but this is awkward. Any normal situation doesn't really include angrily screwing with your arrogant, charismatic and annoyingly handsome boss anyway. Not that Torchwood has ever been about normal situations anyway. Or at least not-screwing-your-coworkers situations.

"I guess I just have a thing for fiery brunettes, that's all."

"I can see that."

Jack looks at him and grins, and that time Owen really does punch him, even though it's not a really powerful punch, on one of his stupidly muscular arms. Sometimes, Owen wonders if that seemingly unchanging fitness isn't some kind of supernatural ability of him. Maybe it's all the weird alien sex that keeps him in shape. Owen isn't sure he really wants to know.

Jack's quip makes him smile a bit though, even if it doesn't last. He puts out his cigarette in the glass on his bedside table, and it makes this very characteristic buzzing sound as it touches the water.

"You really have to put a bit of work on these biceps if you want to hurt me, Owen."

Owen gives him a look, frowning.

"That's not what you said when I had my cock up your arse."

"Now you're hitting below the belt."

Jack laughs and Owen finds himself chuckling without really knowing why. It's stupid, it's really fucking stupid, almost stupider than his little infatuation with Gwen or that terrible shag with Suzie, back before she proved herself to be fucking insane bitch. He closes his eyes, wonders for a moment if he doesn't want a shower. His hands are still sticky with come, and he's never been one for smelling like sex the morning after. Still. The bed is nice, and he's not sure he doesn't want this momentary insanity last a little bit.

Jack slips his arm around Owen's waist, his head still resting comfortably on the pillow. There's a peaceful expression on his face, and it's somewhat endearing, even though Owen will never, never say it out loud.

"What do you think you're doing?"

"Cuddling. You're not a selfish lover are you?"

"You fucking Americans…"

There's grumbling, covers getting in the way, a few snarky comments about the state of Owen's apartment and there's Jack very annoying, very obvious erection against Owen's back at one point or another. He does tell him that the Captain's not getting another blowjob tonight, thank you very much, but after a while they fit, curled on the bed face to face with Jack's hand on his hip and his head against his broad chest. It feels nice, nicer than it should, and Owen can hear Jack's heartbeat, regular and even, as he passes his fingers over Jack's nipple.

"Did it hurt?"

His hand trail over his collarbone, his pectoral muscle, his throat, where he shot him, one time, two times, three times. There are no scars, there never are scars on Captain Jack Harkness' body. Owen hasn't properly asked why, because Torchwood is all about not asking questions, he has learnt that the hard way. As far as he's concerned, it might be alien sex magic, knowing Jack's somewhat peculiar habits.

Still. He doesn't regret it, because it saved everything, and it saved the world and Gwen's dumb boyfriend. He's just asking to ask, really.

"Yes."

Owen sighs, and he won't apologise for that either. The words he isn't sure he means to say out loud slips his lips before he can stop them.

"You know I'd do it again, if I had to."

Jack makes that face, and maybe it's the circumstances, maybe it's the two of them arguing until they end up kissing and biting each other on the autopsy table. Owen hadn't planned it to go like this, not really, but Jack's lips were nice, and it was better than to have him screaming in that infuriating accent of him. It was about the team, about how Jack had left without an explanation, about how they'd been breaking into pieces without him and about Jack's secrets. Owen might have initiated the kissing-or-more-like-biting part, but it was Jack that had pushed him against the autopsy table and _fucking shit, Harkness, keep your clothes on, we're going to my place_.

There's no answer, only Jack's hand in his hair and a long sigh that means more than a thousand words. They stay like this for a moment, Owen listening to the sound of Jack's heartbeat, his eyes closed.

It won't last, because it never lasts, and Owen's touch is like fire, and it burns Jack's steel skin. It won't last because they're like paper catching on fire, and Owen will never really forgive Jack for Katie's death, in what seems like a lifetime ago. Jack will never change and Jack will never age, and Owen craves death too much sometimes to try to imagine what it would feel like to live forever.

But for now it doesn't matter, not with the regular, pounding heartbeat against Owen's ear.


End file.
